Red on White
by gloombox
Summary: Hisoka needs, hates, loves, craves Muraki Kazutaka. SLASH, SQUICK, PWP. Quite dirty. MurakixHisoka


  
  
  
  
Come to me, come to me, come to me, be touched by the hands of a sinner. Revel again in the hideous pleasure I give to you, find the brutal rhythms you lost with your innocence...again again again. Come to me. Lose all that you've nurtured from barren soil. You have nothing, so come to me. Return to me, my doll. Let me devour you, penetrate you, dispose of the dignity you feign. In any circumstance, there is a way out, and often that is to venture further in.   
He doesn't love you, how could he love you? There is no love that enters or leaves you, save my own. I created you as a doll, and I love you enough to kill you...if only it could be done again.  
  
Muraki  
  
  
So read the letter that was slipped under my door. I read it again and again, though I wanted to burn it. I told myself he was a sinner, that he craved nothing more but so see pained eyes looking up at him. But what did I want? With a laugh I knew that I wanted what he wanted. I needed to look up at someone and beg for mercy.  
  
I called him from a public phone, afraid that Tsuzuki would hear me otherwise. I dialed the number weakly, and heard two rings, then...  
  
Muraki Kazutaka...  
Yes, my puppet, I was expecting your call. You received my letter? There was no query in this. My breath caught and raced in and out of my throat.  
I hate you...I hate you but I need you. Your sickness is my vice... I said this quickly, in hopes to lessen its meaning. There was silence, and I felt his smile.  
So I gather. Since you need my assistance so direly, I suppose my schedule could accommodate you tomorrow, yes, in the afternoon.  
No, no, no! That won't do...not at all. It has to be now! I slammed my hand against the wall out of frustration.  
Crawling back, he noted in a pleased whisper. My hand trailed down my leg as I fought the urge to touch myself. He gave me the location, and I wandered into the dark streets, flushed and hard.  
  
I stared at the ground before me, locking myself away from the drifting thoughts around me. I focused on the noise I was supposed to hear, the cackling of high school girls on their cellphones, dissonant music from store entrances, vomiting business men. None of it phased me in the slightest. As I neared his house, his door, it occurred to me that I wouldn't mind never coming back. I belonged to him, this was my home. Where I was to be kept...and if I defied him, where I would arrive against my will, over and over. How I hated to be a toy, and what a toy I was. I knocked twice, and he answered the door swiftly. I only realized that my head was down in shame when the weight of his hand rested upon it.  
What a mess you're become without me, little boy. You'd waste away again if it were possible, he remarked quietly, pulling me inside. I didn't resist, I heard the door click shut, and felt his hand touch my cheek, neck, shoulder, chest, side, stomach, hip...and I was gone. He fucked me on the floor, laying where I first stood in that place. There was no preparation, no softness beyond what he desired. His long hands tangled painfully in my hair as he came without a sound. I felt objectified, abused, worthless, just as I had wanted. His hot, rapid breath hit my neck as he collapsed onto me, his fingers pulling rhythmically at my hair, then wiping away tears I hadn't noticed myself.  
You cry too often, but you have reason, I suppose. I would cry if I were as thoroughly ruined as you. I couldn't reply, I didn't want to speak. The pain in my body and the ache in my head was enough to satisfy me. But there was something else...the core ingredient of this drug. The perverse insanity that could only be Muraki's. It's color was white, it's flavor sexual, bloody, decadent. And it sounded like a madman's lullaby, industrial orgasms, rhythmic violations, screams and discontented moans. He withdrew and undressed me properly.  
A lush length of white silk was tied, and I was led by his cold fingers. I stood in place for a moment, shivering and unsure, before I felt more silk being wrapped around my body. A kimono. It's white, boy. My favorite color. This obi, he said while tugging it around my waist too firmly,is red, to set off your blood. Suddenly I hated him enough to kill. I lashed out at him blindly, throwing my fist where I supposed he would be. I then found my face on the floor, his hand forcing it down gently. His body was against mine, pressing my hands against my back.  
Don't move like that anymore, don't move with violence in your heart,he purred in my ear,it's so adorable I can't bear it. He licked my throat, and bit down just below my ear. I couldn't help but moan as warm blood spilled into his mouth, soaked the white silk kimono what now slipped off my shoulders. I imagined his smiling lips painted with my own blood and I craved a kiss. The one I received was hushed, almost plaintive, coppery sweet but bordered innocuous. I knew how deadly this was, and it heightened the sheer carnality of the act tenfold. His finger caressed the wound in a medical motion, blood coating his alabaster skin.  
That finger parted my lips as he pulled me covetously close, the other hand digging into my shoulder, our hips locked. I was glad to lick and suck my blood off, savoring the concert of tastes. He withdrew his finger and I could feel his eyes on me, though I couldn't see them. In a soft, amused voice,Ah...you look so lovely, but I must say that kimono suits your partner much better.  
  



End file.
